


The Flow of the River

by vands38



Series: Rainbow Road (F1 AU) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Airplane Sex, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Formula One, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Car Accidents, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Driver!Geralt, Formula 1, Geralt Gets Therapy, Homophobia, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Jaskier's Terrible Fashion Sense, Journalist!Jaskier, M/M, Not Beta Read, Polish Geralt, Polish Jaskier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28834146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Geralt walks away from the accident at Silverstone with barely a scratch. Physically, that is. Inside he's a bit of a mess, and has no idea how to conduct this new relationship with Jaskier when they cannot even hold hands.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rainbow Road (F1 AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113965
Comments: 45
Kudos: 151





	The Flow of the River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlooodyMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlooodyMoon/gifts).



> So many of you requested a F1 AU sequel but I was paralysed with indecision as to which story I wanted to tell. Instead, I decided to tell all of them, so here’s ten consecutive scenes from their relationship leading up to them coming out. 
> 
> I often headcanon Geralt as being on the autistic spectrum and Jaskier having ADHD but in this fic these themes are a little more prominent than usual so I’ve tagged it as such. I’m not an expert by any means, and I’m aware that neurodivergence is a complicated thing that manifests differently in different people so please take any depictions here with a pinch of salt.
> 
> cw: depiction of PTSD incl panic attacks, car crashes / injury detail, homophobia, occasional homophobic language, being closeted / risk of being outed, and mention of colonialism and the slave trade because they visit a Georgian house and I couldn't resist a rant (info: [1](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/features/addressing-the-histories-of-slavery-and-colonialism-at-the-national-trust) | [2](https://historicengland.org.uk/images-books/publications/slavery-and-british-country-house/slavery-british-country-house-web/) | [3](https://www.peepaltreepress.com/books/green-unpleasant-land))
> 
> Although this is rated ‘T’ there are sex references abound… in fact, it’s definitely pushing the line into ‘Mature’.
> 
> The photograph mentioned throughout is the one pictured below.

_Bahrain I, Andreas Gursky, 2005 (image: Tate)_

I.

Geralt returns to his hotel suite early Monday morning. Just sprains and bruises, they said, before loading him up with painkillers and ordering weeks of bedrest. With any luck, he’ll be fit for the next Grand Prix in Germany but the medics warn he might have to wait until Hungary to race. The team talked back and forth about it for hours until the nutritionist handed him his revised diet and his personal trainer handed him a tentative physio schedule and his manager said ‘aim for Germany’ and so, here they are, aiming for Germany.

His entire life is micro-managed and so he’s not surprised when his assistant starts prattling about his itinerary when all he wants to do is sleep. He grunts, pacing the room, and glaring at the generic track photography that they always put on the walls of these damn places until the assistant finally relents and just pushes the papers into his hands instead. “Just be at the airport on Sunday.”

He grunts and nods and then there is finally some blissful fucking silence. He drinks ice cold water, takes a blistering hot shower, and then watches a history documentary in his joggers and hoody. He’s just starting to relax when, predictably, his phone rings.

Geralt sees the name of the team’s publicist flash up on his phone and groans in dismay. She’s a persistent one who will just come knocking if he doesn’t answer, so with a glare, he answers the phone as bluntly as he can, “What?”

“That Polish journalist is here to see you,” she says.

Geralt freezes. He hasn’t seen Jaskier since the conference centre, smiling at him from the crowd. Geralt had started to think he had hallucinated Jaskier declaration – “I care about you” – and his gentle kiss following his accident. He didn’t dare let himself loiter on it. But he was here. To see him. Okay.

“Uh,” he says. 

“He’s skulking around the lobby like a lost puppy. Shall I tell him to go home like a good boy?”

“No, uh,” Geralt hesitates, before clearing his throat and trying again, “No. Let him up. And, uh, make sure he’s on the approved list.”

The publicist sighs in that annoyed way she does. “He’s a _journalist_ , Rivia. He’s only here for the story, and I don’t want you spilling beans that are worth a thousand dollars each.”

“He’s here because he’s my _friend_ ,” Geralt corrects firmly. “Have him sign a NDA if you want, just let him up.”

Geralt hangs up before she can protest further and finds that his palms are oddly slick. He wipes them on his joggers. There’s no reason to be nervous. It’s just _Jaskier_. Jaskier with his bright clothing and even brighter smile, Jaskier with his silly jokes and his age-old idioms, Jaskier with those soft lips and cautious hands… _fuck_.

Maybe he’s here to say it was a mistake. Jaskier will likely lose his job on the conservative Polish network if they find out he’s queer. There’s already rumours about the journalist’s sexuality, owing to his eccentric clothing and flirtatious nature, and ignited by a tabloid picture outside a gay club three years ago. There was an online petition launched the very next day, calling for the Polish TV network to fire Jaskier for “inappropriate behaviour, unbefitting of our nation” so surely it’s not a good idea for him to be seen in intimate situations with a driver. Yes, that must be right. He’s just here to correct the record.

Or… he’s here for other reasons. Because he missed him. Because he wants to kiss him. Because he wants to _fuck_ him. 

No. Geralt was being ridiculous. It’s got nothing to do with what happened at the weekend. Jaskier’s just here for a companionable drink, as they often do after races, albeit in public, at a bar, and not… 

There’s a knock on the door.

Geralt takes a breath, and wipes his hands again. It’s just _Jaskier_. A man that thinks yellow and turquoise is a good fashion choice. _Get a grip_. 

Whatever semblance of sanity Geralt had managed to maintain is lost as soon as he opens the door. Jaskier is so fucking pretty. Now he’s allowed himself to see Jaskier as more than a friend, it’s all that he can see – the tousled hair and the flushed cheeks and the crooked smile. He knows what those lips feel like under his. He knows what those hands feel like on his skin. _Fuck_. He’s just been staring like a gormless idiot. 

“Hi,” he says, in his mother tongue because he can, and because he knows Jaskier will smile at the sound.

He does so, and the brightness of it blinds him for a minute. “Hi,” Jaskier replies in kind.

 _Fuck_. Geralt suddenly feels nauseous and giddy, like he’s just about to overtake on a tricky corner. He doesn’t normally feel that way outside a race.

“Can I come in?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt blinks, still shocked that Jaskier’s here, and steps back to welcome him in.

Jaskier makes a show of looking round the place, giving a running commentary as he goes, “So this is what the hotel’s finest suite looks like… It’s nice. Good size living room. Is that a flat screen TV? And a Gursky! Of course. You never go to a single hotel on the circuit nowadays without spotting one of those. I love his work, don’t you?” he asks, leaning towards the photograph of Bahrain as if it’s actually worth studying. “Makes me feel serene, somehow. The track looks like a river or something. You know what I mean? Like you could flow anywhere.”

Geralt closes the door behind him, a little dazed from how fast they went from standing awkwardly in the doorway to talking about art. “Can’t say I’ve given it much thought.”

Jaskier chuckles and fingers the edge of the print in contemplation. “Not an art fan?” he asks. 

“Not a Gursky fan.”

Jaskier grins and taps the frame before striding back towards Geralt. “Geralt Rivia, three-time Formula 1 champion... also a pretentious art snob.”

“I didn’t say I was pretentious about it. I like things. I don’t like things. That’s all there is to it.”

“Very profound,” Jaskier says, but his lips twitch as if they want to curl up into a smile. 

Are they flirting? Can you even flirt about art? Geralt just doesn’t understand people sometimes. “Why are you here?”

The words come out harsher than he’d intended and he winces, afraid Jaskier will take offence at his direct questioning. He doesn’t though. Geralt supposes, after all this time, that the journalist must be used to his blunt manner. 

Jaskier smiles instead. “Do I make you nervous?” he asks, fluttering his eyes and laying his hand ever so gently atop Geralt’s chest.

 _This_ , Geralt knows, _is definitely flirting_. 

“I, uh –” Geralt swallows his nerves. “Thought you might have had second thoughts.”

Jaskier seems to sober somewhat, and tilts his head with a frown. “I haven’t, if you haven’t?”

Geralt catches his eye and goes to shake his head before remembering the stiffness in his neck and settling on a small smile instead that he hopes doesn’t betray his nerves. “No,” he whispers, daring to set his hands on Jaskier’s hips. They seem to fit so perfectly there. “I just… don’t know how to do this.”

“You seem to be doing just fine,” Jaskier says teasingly, before leaning in and brushing his lips against Geralt’s.

Geralt groans at the sudden flare sparked by the simple touch and pulls Jaskier into the full circle of his arms so he can kiss him fully. It’s deep and consuming and intense, hands roaming and tongues delving and lips claiming, until Geralt tilts his head and sharp pain shoots through his spine.

He pulls back with a hiss. He begins to apologise, only to find Jaskier’s beautiful face marred with concern saying the words back at him duplicate.

“I guess fun activities are off the table for the time being, huh?” Jaskier asks, reaching up to cover Geralt’s own hand on the back of his neck. 

Geralt tries to think of a single sexual activity that wouldn’t jar his neck, or his back, or the large dark bruises across his body, and fails to come up with a single solution. “That might be for the best,” he allows, even though he resents every word. 

“Right! Well, how about a drink?” Jaskier asks, stepping out the circle of his arms to skip towards the drinks cabinet. “It’s our favourite pastime after all. Who cares if it’s barely midday?”

“It’s 10am.”

“You can’t tell a Pole when to drink, I won’t hear it –” 

Geralt huffs a laugh. At any other time, he might be tempted, because fuck knows he’s a much better conversationalist a drink or two in, however – “Can’t,” he says, just as Jaskier reaches for a glass. “Meds.”

Jaskier places the bottle firmly down on the drinks cabinet. “Right, _fuck_.” He laughs self-deprecatingly as he screws the lid back on. “Apparently I have no idea what to do on a date if I can’t drink or fuck. Uh, dinner?” he says, busying himself with the drinks cabinet. “That’s something people do. We could go to dinner? Or brunch I suppose, seeing as it’s apparently only ten o’clock,” he says with another awkward laugh.

Geralt doesn’t like that Jaskier is still facing away from him, and out of his reach. He steps closer and lays a hand across the small of his back, revelling in the touch that before now would have been untoward. Jaskier sags against the touch and turns towards him with an embarrassed smile. “I’m guessing you’re not allowed to go out either, huh?”

Geralt gives a minute shake of his head. “Not a good idea,” he says, and he leaves it up to Jaskier to decide if he means the _two men on a date_ thing, or the _covered in bruises_ thing. He’s been told not to step outside unless covered in concealer, lest the sight of his injuries cause panic. They look a lot worse than they are, but the tabloids don’t care for accuracy as much as they do a good story. 

“Right,” Jaskier says, resting his head against Geralt’s chest. “So… maybe we should try talking? We can talk. Uh. Let’s see…” he says, looking around the empty hotel suite for inspiration until his eyes land on the track photography and his eyes light up with interest. “Did you hear the rumour that Foltest will start from eleventh position in Hockenheim?”

“Ten place penalty?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head against Geralt’s chest. “They’re running an investigation to rule whether or not the accident was his fault but if they do then he’ll start from eleventh.”

“Hmm,” Geralt muses. It seems fair. A time penalty would be too lax, and a ban too severe. 

Jaskier takes his silence as something else though, and pulls back with a curse on his lips. “Wow, apparently I don’t know how to talk about anything but the sport – look, I’m a good date, I promise, and an even better fuck if you can believe it –”

“I believe it,” Geralt says with a teasing smile. “Just –” he tugs on Jaskier’s horrendous polka dot shirt, urging him back towards the sofa. “Watch a movie with me.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, stumbling towards the sofa. “Right. That’s a good – do you always have good ideas? Have you been holding back on me? You know, it’s cruel to let me keep rambling away like a fool when you know the perfect solution to our predicament. You could have saved me a lot of embarrassment.”

Geralt brings him in for a kiss – soft, and sweet, and most importantly, _silent_. “Relax,” he advises, though he knows he will struggle to take the advice himself as he pushes Jaskier into the plush cushions. “Pick a movie.”

Jaskier smirks and Geralt gets comfortable beside him. “What do you fancy? _Senna_? _Rush_? Oooh did you ever see _Williams_?”

Geralt huffs. “I have interests outside motorsport.”

“Oh, do you?” Jaskier teases, “because I’m always up for watching well-built men drive very fast cars. You’re much less shallow though. I bet you’re only in it for the mechanics. Oh! I assume you’ve seen that documentary about the history of pit stops narrated by Coulthard? You’d love it. Gets real techy in places. The benefits of in-race refuelling and the risks, of course – you remember Verstappan – but it’s fascinating how it’s progressed over the years. They used to have only two mechanics serving each car. Can you imagine? Over a minute just sat there while the race took place around you. Sometimes the drivers would even jump out and assist – then again, I imagine you’d like that, getting your hands dirty in the middle of a race –”

Geralt watches with fond amusement and building interest as Jaskier continues to recite seemingly the whole documentary by heart with wild hand gestures and frequent exclamations of interest. 

“Ah, bollocks,” Jaskier says, approximately half an hour later, “There I go again. I said I wouldn’t talk shop and then I just blurt all that at you.”

Geralt tilts his head with a fond smile and covers Jaskier’s hands with his own. “It was interesting.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, his cheeks flushing deep red. “I suppose you actually mean that, don’t you?” He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s going to take some getting used to. Normally people can’t get me to shut up fast enough.”

“I don’t… mind it,” Geralt says, and finds that he means it. He normally tires of people very quickly but Jaskier has always been an exception to the rule. Sometimes he can’t keep up with his fast-paced rambling or his frantic and unconscious movements – like the journalist just can’t keep still either physically or mentally – but it doesn’t irritate him, per se. It’s nice, actually. A good counterpoint to Geralt’s own stoic personality. 

Jaskier blushes and busies himself with the room service menu, which is probably how they end up having brunch and watching documentaries until mid-afternoon.

When they finally say goodbye, Jaskier kisses him chastely and longingly, and Geralt finds himself not wanting to let go.

II.

“You know, we’re not far from Stowe,” Jaskier says when Geralt answers his phone the next day.

Geralt frowns, and waves away the hovering medic who’s stubbornly insisting on flashing lights into his eyes. His manager is standing behind the medic with a frown, undoubtedly hoping that his condition has miraculously improved overnight. It hasn’t. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets, as the medic takes the hint and stands up to talk to his manager. “Hello.”

“Right, yes, hello, I totally remembered that part. Look, I want to take you on a date. You deserve a nice date somewhere nice and, well, I figured we’re not far from Stowe.”

“I, uh… I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaims, and Geralt hears a rustling of paper that surely doesn’t bode well. “I found it in this brochure in the hotel lobby. It’s this big old grand house that you can go visit. They filmed _Pride and Prejudice_ there or something. Yes, yes, look here, it says it’s ‘ _one of the most remarkable legacies of Georgian England_ ’ – though, I suppose that’s not hard to achieve given that the main Georgian legacy was heartless colonisation... Hey, if we find out that the house originally belonged to slave traders, do you reckon we’re morally obligated to piss all over the doorway? I bet tons of people have done that. The whole place probably reeks of piss. Honestly, Geralt, these British country homes may be fancy as all fuck but they never own up to their colonial history – like, where do they think Mr Stowe got all his money from? If there’s even one mention about trading in sugar and rum without admitting to the other side of that transatlantic trade triangle, then I am going to piss all over their estate… metaphorically or not, I haven’t yet decided.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says distractedly as he catches the phrase ‘ready to race’ leave his manager’s mouth. Perhaps they’ll sign him off a week early and have him race at the German Grand Prix.

“Geralt? You there? Problematic history aside, if you’re worried about being seen together then we can arrange a private tour, no need for your management to even know, strictly speaking, unless you… Geralt?”

“Sorry, I uh –” Geralt starts, but he doesn’t finish because the medic leaves and his manager looks very displeased indeed. “I have to go. Call you back.”

-

Geralt spends the next few hours trapped in meetings with building anxiety because his manager isn’t pleased that he won’t be ready to race in time for the German Grand Prix but the publicist wants him to be _seen_ in good health and suggests that he accompany the team to Hockenheim anyway (covered in concealer, naturally) and Geralt is stuck in the middle of them. By the time Geralt is left in peace, exhausted and shaking and covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat for some reason, there are a string of text messages from Jaskier lighting up the screen – 

_Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep._

Geralt frowns, and continues reading the chain of messages –- 

_Like, if you’ve had second (third?) thoughts, that’s okay. It was a crazy weekend! We don’t have to do the whole Dating thing if you just want to be friends, or fuckbuddies, or whatever. Sorry. I just… thought we were on the same page. But I guess not. And that’s okay!!! Happy to be your friend. No dates necessary._

_Also sorry that I talked about piss. And colonialism. Bit of a mood killer, that one._

_Unless it’s the gay thing? Because if it’s new to you, or you’re overwhelmed, then we can take it slow, or fast, or however you want. & we don’t have to be out!!! I don’t expect that! in fact, I kinda assumed we wouldn’t be, given… you know. _

_fuck. we really didn’t talk about this at all, did we?_

_Just… message me when you can?_

_Okay, so I sat down and had some much needed caffeine and realised that I might just be looking for a hole in the whole, you know? I’m so used to people telling me that they’re busy because they don’t want to talk to me… but not like that, are you? So maybe you are actually busy. Maybe you’re just wrapped up in meetings and interviews, telling people just how healthy you are! Because you are healthy, right? You’re healthy??_

_If you’ve lapsed and fallen into a coma and I didn’t even get to kiss you properly then that would be a TRAGEDY and I’d sue the fucking FOWC or FISA or Foltest himself if I could get my bloody hands on him_

_GERALT PLEASE JUST CALL ME SO I CAN TELL MY BRAIN TO SHUT UP_

Geralt huffs a laugh and connects the call – 

“Sorry,” he says first because he feels like that’s a good place to start. “Stowe sounds nice, pissing and all.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says with a sigh, sounding ever so relieved. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” he confirms, just as softly. “Sorry it took me so long to call. My team are deciding what to do with me.”

Jaskier laughs. “Well, I know what _I_ ’d like to do with you,” he flirts, “but I can’t imagine they’d agree.”

Geralt huffs a laugh of his own, able to picture Jaskier’s coy smile perfectly in his mind. 

“So, uh, about my thousand messages –”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m really sorry. I’m just prone to panicking when things don’t go to plan, but I’m aware that I’m a lot and it’s okay if you don’t –”

“It’s okay,” Geralt repeats. “And, uh, I want you to…” he glances around his empty hotel room out of habit, checking for prying eyes. “I want to date you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes again, and Geralt swears it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “That’s… nice. I would like that. Very much.”

“But we’d have to...”

“Right.”

“Because of…”

“You don’t need to explain, Geralt. I understand.”

Geralt sighs and rubs at his temples tiredly. Of course Jaskier understands the need to be discreet. If his own precarious position wasn’t enough, then there’s Geralt’s to consider. Motor racing is a conservative sport at its heart and most drivers don’t come out until after retirement, if they do at all. Geralt would risk losing multiple sponsorships and his place on the team – not to mention the respect of his nation – if he were to come out. 

According to their country, and according to their sport, queers are meant to be discreet enough to be hidden. And if hiding this thing between them is the only way to keep both his career and his relationship with Jaskier, then he will find a way to do it. 

-

Stowe is as pretty as Jaskier described, but also just as problematic as he fears. He spends the entire private tour making mischief and inciting revolution Geralt spends the entire time trailing after him, very much enamoured by his passion, and researching what he can on his phone to aid the fight for what Jaskier calls ‘honest history’. 

Afterwards, they picnic in the closed grounds and Geralt has to catch himself every time his gaze lingers too long or his smile turns a little too fond. His hands twitch at his side, longing to touch and being denied at every turn. 

If this is what their courtship will be like, then it will be both wonderful and torturous. For as much as he resents the charade and the way he must hide his affection, he is so thankful for the time spent with Jaskier that he cannot regret his decision. Neither does he regret the fierce kisses that Jaskier bestows upon him when they are finally behind closed doors.

Geralt feels like he’s stumbling in the dark guided only by Jaskier’s hand. He doesn’t know what the future holds, or if they will be able to maintain their charade. Every day is a risk. Every touch is exhilarating. And they walk the fine line between.

III.

“Fuck, Geralt, we’re going to get caught –”

But Geralt’s too busy kissing him, too busy pushing him back into the tiny aeroplane cubicle and pressing his body tight against his. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem to object, sighing into Geralt’s kiss and pushing his hands under Geralt’s loose grey tee. 

“You said we should do this,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s neck.

“I was joking!” Jaskier squeaks, but it turns into a sigh as Geralt nibbles at his skin. “Mostly!”

Geralt grunts and catches his lips in another kiss.

Doing this on the same aeroplane as their teams on the way to Germany is definitely inadvisable but Geralt’s recently encountered a phenomenon where all common sense flies out the window as soon as Jaskier looks at him. 

“It’s only a short flight,” Jaskier murmurs. “You couldn’t have waited?”

Geralt growls and takes Jaskier’s lips again, because he’s wasting valuable time talking when he could be kissing. The next time they need to break for air, Geralt shakes his head, “No time. I’ll be taken straight to my hotel. Meetings, health checks, interviews…”

“Urgh,” Jaskier says, palming Geralt through his trousers with intent. “The life of fame. God forbid you actually receive a blow job in bed like a normal person.”

Geralt huffs. “Doubt there’s room in here for a blow job.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow and goes about proving him wrong. They’ve been fooling around more and more as Geralt’s injuries mend and he hopes it won’t be long before they can fall into bed without reservation. He hasn’t even been able to return this act, given the strain on his neck, but he takes Jaskier in hand and makes it as good as he can. 

Jaskier looks utterly debauched by the time they’re done; flushed red, panting, and licking his dry lips with his tiger print shirt (atrocious, as always) wrinkled and rumpled. Geralt wishes he could always have him like this, open and unguarded and in his arms. Instead, he settles for kissing him, as softly and as sweetly as he dares.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispers, carding his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair. “What’s come over you?”

Geralt shakes his head and breaks the embrace. “We should head back.”

Jaskier frowns, and for a moment, Geralt fears that he’ll push the matter, but then he sighs and looks down at the mess they’ve made. “Check the door for me, darling? It might take me a minute to clean up.”

Geralt’s lips tick up into a barely-there smile at the sound of the pet name spoken for the first time. He’s never been anyone’s “darling” before. 

He catches Jaskier’s shy gaze and gives him a nod, reassuring him of the endearment more than their situation. 

They both take a moment to clean up before cracking open the door, excuses at the ready, but there’s no need as they emerge into an empty corridor. Geralt wishes he could take Jaskier’s hand and lead him back to his seat, that they could sit next to each other and fill out the same crossword or listen to the same music or simply look out the window and talk. He wishes he had the simple luxury of Jaskier’s companionship.

Geralt sighs, and doesn’t dare look back as they go to their separate seats, entire classes apart. 

IV.

It’s three days before Geralt has a free afternoon and Jaskier comes over to spend the entirety of it in his bed. Geralt’s injuries have subsided enough that he barely experiences a twinge of pain through their very enthusiastic lovemaking. 

They lie side by side afterwards, catching their breath as they stare up at the ceiling in yet another very generic hotel suite with yet another Gursky on the wall. _Like you could flow anywhere_ , Jaskier had said. He thinks he might understand now.

“That was… good,” Jaskier says with an exhausted wave of his hand. “It’s been a while.”

“For me as well.”

“No one ever tells you how hard it is to get laid from the inside of a closet.”

Geralt snorts, and rolls over to admire his lover in full glory. He’s truly a beautiful man. Geralt still finds it surreal that he gets to _look_ , that he gets to _touch_ , after having denied himself for so long. 

“The last time I tried to take a man to bed, the fucker tried to blackmail me after. Said he’d go to the press.” He huffs a bitter laugh, and turns his head towards Geralt. “How the fuck do _you_ manage it? You’re way more famous than I am.”

Geralt gives a one-armed shrug. The movement barely even hurts anymore. “I rarely bother. I suppose Eskel used to give me a hand when he was on the circuit.”

“Ha! I _knew_ it!” Jaskier exclaims in joy, rolling over completely to gesture wildly at Geralt. “I fucking _knew_ you two were more than ‘childhood best friends’! Oh man, I feel so vindicated right now. I want to go back in time and tell twenty-five year old me that he wasn’t imagining that hesitation in the _Men’s Health_ interview and that one day, if I wait until a horrific car accident to confess my adoration, that I will receive definite, _definite_ , proof of that gorgeous man’s queer desires.”

Geralt huffs and nuzzles into his side, waiting for Jaskier’s amusement to fade.

It does, eventually. He feels Jaskier’s hand gently running down his naked back and Geralt feels utterly, _utterly_ , at peace.

This time, when Jaskier speaks, it’s softer, purposefully so. “But… Eskel hasn’t raced for years, has he?

Geralt closes his eyes and chases away the memory of the flame that consumed his best friend. Eskel had raced for a while after he had recovered but he was passed from shitty team to shitty team and eventually, after only one season of Formula 1, he had gone into a quiet retirement. “He hasn’t,” he allows, “but then I had Yen.”

“Ah. The girlfriend,” Jaskier says. “I suppose that did last for a number of years.”

Geralt hums, not really wanting to encourage Jaskier to ask any follow-up questions. It had been an ugly break-up, but worse yet, had been a fucking disaster from the start. Geralt ought to have known better than to date someone that worked for the team.

“So, you’re telling me you’ve never experienced the excruciating pain of trying to arrange a hook-up in a foreign city with someone that hopefully doesn’t know who you are but there’s no guarantee so you draft up a non-disclosure clause on toilet paper written in eyeliner even though you’re not sure that they even understand English and then two weeks later when they realise who you are and try to sell you out, you go to your lawyer and they say that the spontaneous NDA written in Club Tropicale isn’t legally binding because the eyeliner smudge obscures your name rendering the whole thing void and ‘anyway, sir, I don’t know how expect me to defend drunken toilet paper scribblings as good legal practise’... you’ve never had that?”

Geralt, baffled, tilts his head to look up at Jaskier, and shakes his head.

“You lucky bugger. I’ll tell you what, the stress of this,” he says, waving a hand at their naked bodies, “pales in comparison to the stress of _that_. Not that the charade isn’t awful – because it is, obviously, and I’d kill to go on a proper date with you – but at least I’m not constantly fretting that you’ll take compromising pictures of me or go to the papers and tell them that I’m a raging homo. At least with us it’s mutually assured destruction, you know? We _both_ lose our jobs if someone finds out… and, shit,” he says, suddenly stalling his ramblings with a wince. “Sorry, I just realised that this isn’t good pillow talk. Pretty terrible actually. You know what? I feel like I’ve brought the whole mood down, I’m just gonna –”

Geralt captures Jaskier’s wrist as he makes to leave the bed and tugs him into a slow and sensual kiss. He can feel Jaskier melting against him, and for a moment Geralt thinks that he’s succeeded in luring him back to bed, until Jaskier pulls away looking even more forlorn than he had before.

“I should probably go regardless,” he says, cupping Geralt’s face and looking at him with a curious intensity. “We don’t want them finding me here in the morning.”

Geralt sighs, and reluctantly lets him go. Geralt’s assistant is often here at the crack of dawn to give him the day’s schedule and he knows that rumours would fly even if, by some miracle, they were both up and dressed by the time she came knocking. 

Jaskier puts on his rumpled clothes and trudges to the door with a fake smile on his face and Geralt kisses him goodbye, wishing that it wasn’t so.

V.

A couple of days before the German Grand Prix, Geralt’s bruises have finally healed enough for him to be given some leeway, and one rapid google search later, he knows exactly what he wants to do with such freedom. 

“We’re not far from Schloss Heidelberg,” he says. “Ruined castle on the hillside. Meant to be nice. Then, uh, I found a roofbar that does sushi and cocktails, if you want…?”

“Oh, takeaway?” Jaskier asks. “Yeah, we could totally –”

“No. Uh. I can… leave. They said I can go. If you want to go. My German’s shit though.”

Jaskier laughs, and it’s just as captivating as usual. “Mine’s just fine, I’ll order for you. Half of these places speak English anyhow and I know you only pretend not to be fluent to avoid that pretentious prick from the BBC.” 

Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Then, softer: “Are you sure?”

Geralt shrugs, even though he can’t see it. “We’re friends. We’ve been spotted in bars together before.”

“Right. Yes, of course. I’m just… overthinking this. It’s no different than usual. Right. Except this time when I’m drunkenly staring across the table at you, fantasising about kissing that cute little frown of yours, I’ll know exactly how those gorgeous lips feel against mine... how you _move_ … how you _taste_...” He groans and Geralt hears a thunk across the static of the phonecall, like Jaskier’s just banged his head against the nearest wall. “Yeah, that won’t be distracting at all.”

Geralt huffs a laugh in the knowledge that he will likely suffer the exact same fate. “You can taste me plenty afterwards.”

“Is that a promise, Rivia?” Jaskier flirts with a deep voice.

Geralt smiles against his phone, as bashful as he always is when Jaskier speaks to him like that. “Yeah. Stay over. We’ll say you got drunk, couldn’t find your own room.” 

Geralt reasons that the occasional sleepover can be excused under the guise of alcohol and friendship. He’s excited. He wants to spend the whole night by Jaskier’s side. However, the reminder of their necessary ruse seems to put a damper on Jaskier’s eagerness and when they make their goodbyes he still sounds distant – muted, almost – like he’s suddenly very far away.

-

The next afternoon they wander around the historic ruins and beautiful buildings of nearby Heidelberg in the August sunshine and manage to have quite a pleasant time. Luckily in the humdrum of the tourist attraction, most people seem to turn a blind eye to the motor racing celebrities in their midst and Geralt allows himself to relax a little and watch the way that Jaskier lights up when he’s engrossed in the history of the place. He wants to take his hand, or brush the strands of hair from his forehead, or press a kiss to his hairline, but he settles for the warmth of Jaskier’s side against his as he reaches around for a staged photograph. 

Geralt frowns when Jaskier shows him the photo and accompanying tweet – something about Geralt being a secret history nerd. “Is that really necessary?” 

“We agreed that we should make it look like happenstance. This way it looks like I just bumped into you and we spontaneously spent the day together.”

“I meant the tweet.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says with a frown. “Well, you know,” he says, pocketing his phone with a slight blush on his cheeks, “all part of the charade, my friend. Better to tell the story that we want to tell than wait for the tabloids to make up their own.”

“Hmm,” Geralt muses. His publicist has said something of the sort before. It makes a certain sort of sense. 

“What’s got flies up your nose?” Jaskier asks, wrinkling his nose just like the Polish idiom would suggest. “You know, now I’ve revealed your nerdy side, you’ll be inundated with job offers. The History Channel are always churning out those Formula 1 documentaries – _god_ , I’d bet you’d sound downright _gorgeous_ narrating one of those things – quick, talk to me about the efficiency of various drag reduction systems –”

Geralt raises his eyebrow and makes a show of casting his gaze around the grounds, wordlessly reminding Jaskier of their very public setting before he decides to indulge any more in his idea of dirty talk. 

“Oh, fine, you bore. But you’re putting on a private show for me later. Bonus points if you’re in that atrocious racing suit of yours.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, and immediately starts planning how he can get ahold of his suit when he’s not even racing. 

-

The view from the roofbar is amazing. The lights of the town twinkle below them as they drink and eat and flirt late into the night. This is the first time that it’s actually felt like a date – no chaperone, no cameras, no pretence – just two people spending time together.

If only he could reach across and take Jaskier’s hand. 

VI.

 _– the world spinning and spinning too fast to see, a sickening crunch, the burning lick of flames, chest crushed, stomach churning, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, twisted metal, burning hands, trapped, TRAPPED_ – 

Geralt wakes, still heaving air into aching lungs. He sits with sheets tangled in his legs, feeling cold sweat drip down his hunched back. His hands are shaking uncontrollably in his lap. With practised focus, he clenches them, the conscious movement helping to drown out the sense memory of surrounding fire and scalding metal.

There is movement beside him and Geralt jumps, startled, before he turns to see familiar chestnut hair splayed across the white pillowcase and hands rubbing at sleepy blue eyes.

 _Jaskier_.

“Geralt?” he asks sleepily. “You okay?”

But the words sound far away. There is still fire raging in his ears. Geralt tries to verbalise his distress but words refuse to form in his head and his tongue feels too large and heavy in his dry mouth. His hands are still shaking. 

Whatever Jaskier must see must startle him into action because his hands are soon cupping Geralt’s clammy neck and all he can see before him is his lover’s frown. 

“Fuck, darling,” Jaskier whispers, petting his hair softly. “You’re soaked through. I’m going to run a bath, okay? I’ll be right back.”

It feels like an eternity and also no time at all before Jaskier returns. He kneels before him on the bed and takes Geralt’s hands in his. They’re both still naked. _Fuck_. They should have both changed before falling asleep. What if someone sees them like this?

“Darling, I’m going to need you to breathe, okay? In and out.”

Geralt hadn’t noticed that his breathing was still ragged and irregular. He does his best to follow Jaskier’s exaggerated examples but he can’t help being reminded of similar exercises after his first accident and it’s only when Jaskier’s hand covers his own on his chest that he realises he’s been clutching at the site of his old injury, where he punctured a lung as a teen. 

A steady supply of oxygen does seem to clear his mind though; enough that he can sense Jaskier’s own anxiety staring back at him. 

“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs, guilty for waking Jaskier and no doubt worrying him too. He had hoped that Jaskier’s comforting presence would keep the demons at bay during their first night together, but apparently he was not so lucky. He should have warned him, or slept on the sofa, or _something_. 

Jaskier frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t you dare apologise. That bath should be nice and warm by now – let’s go, shall we?”

Geralt feels both comforted and utterly humiliated at Jaskier’s soft words. He is not some invalid to be pandered to and he fears that he growls as Jaskier’s hands come to help him out of bed. It’s not his fault. Jaskier is only being nice. But Geralt hates to be made to feel so bloody useless. 

He can feel Jaskier awkwardly hovering behind him as he makes his way to the ensuite where a hot bath, as promised, is awaiting him. He ought to apologise to Jaskier for his gruffness, but he doesn’t have the words and instead leaves the door open in invitation as he clambers into the bath. 

He sighs in contentment as soon as he’s settled, eyes rolling and his head falling back onto the ceramic rim in pleasure. He hadn’t realised how much tension was still held in his body until he felt it draining away.

“Feels good, right?” Jaskier asks, his voice trembling with uncharacteristic nerves.

Geralt tilts his head to the side and winces when the movement upsets his injury. It ought to be fine by now but perhaps he aggravated it when he was in the grips of the nightmare. Instead, he rises until he can see Jaskier leaning against the doorway like Schrodinger’s guest.

“I, uh, found that it helped when I had…” Jaskier screws up his face and shakes his head viciously before taking the open invitation and striding into the hotel-pristine bathroom. “I’m sorry. You realise what just happened right? A panic attack, triggered by a night terror, suspiciously not very long after a traumatic accident. Like, you know what this is, right? Your team know? You’ve been appointed a psychiatrist? You’re going to therapy? _Fuck_ , Geralt, can you even drive like this?” 

Geralt slips under the steaming water, hoping to drown out Jaskier’s insistent questioning. He’s still _twitchy_ and Jaskier’s increasingly frantic voice and movements aren’t helping. When he rises, Jaskier has fallen silent but his frown has deepened into a scowl.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’ to all of the above.” 

Geralt averts his eyes. “I’m handling it.”

Jaskier snorts in disbelief and collapses on the floor next to the tub, resting his head back against the rim perpendicular from his. “Did you see the accident? In your dream?”

Geralt grunts in wry amusement. “Which accident?”

Jaskier sighs. “You’ve been experiencing PTSD since the first time, then.”

Geralt grits his teeth. He doesn’t like emotional conversations but he woke Jaskier up at the arse crack of dawn with his bullshit and the man probably deserves some kind of explanation. “Before,” he admits. “I started having nightmares after Eskel’s crash. I saw it first-hand. The way the fire consumed him… his panicked face as he tried to break free… it scared me. Like nothing else had.”

Jaskier nods beside him. 

They were both teens at the time but seeing a driver burning alive isn’t something that you forget easily. Eskel is fine now – covered head to toe in burn scars, of course, but _fine_. Geralt had been right behind him; saw the whole car burst into flames, so hot that he could feel it even from the inside of his own. He had pulled over and jumped into the burning wreckage while the staff were still hosing down the car. Geralt still had scorch marks on his hands the next time he got into a car. It had still been on his mind when he had his own accident a month later. To this day, he doesn’t know if the two were connected. 

“I had flashbacks like this the night before the Zandvoort race,” he admits in a whisper. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him. To anyone else, that sentence would mean nothing to them. Who even remembers when the Great ‘Pole on Pole’ Geralt Rivia raced European circuits when he was nineteen and a nobody? Who would care to remember the details of a fifteen year old non-fatal accident and what _circuit_ it was on?

But Jaskier remembers. Because even back then – if what he said at Silverstone was true – Jaskier had _cared_. “You think it caused your crash.”

Geralt shrugs. “Indirectly, perhaps. I was tired. I shouldn’t have raced.”

“No _shit_ ,” Jaskier says, turning to Geralt with fury in his eyes. “You’ve been struggling with this the whole time and no one even –” he breaks off his rant to massage his temples, before lowering his hand and speaking in a much softer tone. “I assume the events at Zandavoort exasperated matters?”

“You could say that. But what difference does it make; I wasn’t racing anyway, and by the time my lung had recovered, so too had my mind. It’s only happened infrequently since, and I’ve never again raced after an attack.”

Jaskier waves his hand. “And then you crashed at Silverstone and –”

“It’s returned, yes,” Geralt says, closing his eyes again and sinking into the warm water. 

“Every night?”

“More or less. Sometimes in the day too. Sometimes just talking about driving makes me break out in sweat. Sometimes I look at fire and I just... ” He clenches his hand so it doesn’t start shaking again. He grits his teeth, angry at himself for being so weak. He knows what all these things are symptomatic of but every time he’s considered mentioning it to his team he thinks, _it was just one bad night, they’ll take me off the team, I’ll be fine in a couple of weeks…_ and he resists. 

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt,” Jaskier swears, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his forehead against the rim of the tub. He looks genuinely distressed on Geralt’s behalf which is not something Geralt has much experience with.

It takes Jaskier a minute or two to recover from Geralt’s confession but when he raises his head out of the fold of his arms, his face is determined, and a raised finger points directly at Geralt. “You are telling your management about this, straight from the bridge. You are getting therapy and whatever else your team of highly-qualified medics tell you to do. And I don’t care what it looks like or what charade we have to construct, I am staying here every night until this resurgence passes so that you don’t have to stay in that nightmarish headspace of yours any longer than necessary. I’ll sneak away at dawn if I have to, or pretend I can’t afford my own room, or whatever other bullshit excuse we need to make up to have me here with you. You’re not alone in this, Geralt, and I’m sorry if you find my constant pestering annoying, but I care about you and –”

Jaskier’s last words are muffled in a kiss because Geralt doesn’t know how else to convey his gratitude. He doesn’t care for Jaskier’s mother-henning, or the inevitable dismay from his team, but he very much cares that _Jaskier_ cares. He’s been struggling with this alone for so long that the only sensation he feels now is _relief_ at knowing he no longer has to carry the burden alone. 

“Fuck the excuses,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s lips. “Stay until morning. Stay every morning. I don’t care what the team think. Just…” He sighs, and runs his hands down Jaskier’s sides, watching as the water droplets slip down his bare skin. “If you want to stay, then stay.”

A slow smile begins to spread across Jaskier’s face. “You scamp,” he teases with a nudge against Geralt’s shoulder, “you were just after an excuse to sleep with me every night.”

It’s more true than Geralt wants to admit to, so he admits to something else instead. “I don’t like the hiding, the games… I don’t enjoy any of it.”

Geralt feels Jaskier’s fingers under his chin and when he raises his head he’s met with a concerned frown. “You’ve never had to hide this much before, have you?”

Geralt struggles to keep eye contact as he swallows his nerves. “No one… Nothing like this.”

Geralt shakes his head with only a mild twinge of discomfort. He was aware, academically, that starting up with Jaskier would be different from hiding the casual intimacies that he’d spent with Eskel but he didn’t realise _how_ different until they had begun. It was harder than he thought possible, to love someone as much as he loved Yen, yet, unable to show it, constantly suppressing it, paranoid of it, even. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and the desolate sound guts Geralt. “Well, that’s… that’s…” He bites his lip and shakes his head, apparently giving up on this train of thought entirely. “Yes, okay. The added stress of it can’t be helping your trauma. So let’s tell your manager about us. Your publicist. Assistant. Whoever needs to know to make this less shitty for you, okay? Let them handle some of the stress, and then I can be here as often as you need me. Sound good?”

Geralt nods his head, and feels tension leave his shoulders. Tension that he didn’t even know he was holding. 

Jaskier chortles and reaches for a towel. “Jeez, buy one get one free on intense conversations tonight. Come on, up with you, and we’ll get you to bed.”

-

Geralt’s assistant reacts to the sight of Jaskier beside him the next morning with a blink of well-hidden surprise and a very confused greeting but the publicist seems almost _relieved_ at the sight. “Oh thank god,” she says, fumbling for papers in her satchel. “I was worried I’d have to pry it out of you.”

She pushes a suspiciously detailed NDA under Jaskier’s nose and doesn’t let him leave before extracting his phone number, address, and social media handles from him. “Don’t so much as tweet again without my permission.” 

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. This publicist is at least three shades less terrifying than Yennefer had been but Jaskier still looks rather meek as he hands over the signed document. She then lists the various people in the team who will need to know and ensures him that they’re all under NDAs but will be given “a very stern lecture” to remind them of the fact. 

Geralt nods his thanks, and then turns towards his assistant who is still standing by the doorway in shock. “I’ll also be needing a therapist.”

And Jaskier takes his hand in his. 

All in all, several appointments are pushed back as the team attempts to manage his twin revelations throughout the day. But Jaskier is there beside him, filling the awkward silences with laughter, and forcing him to eat something for lunch, and holding his hand while the publicist reminds them of the brutal reality of their situation.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating as it used to. It doesn’t feel quite as _lonely_ as it used to. And he falls asleep that night, wrapped around Jaskier, sleeping soundly for the first time in a very long time. 

VII.

Therapy is bullshit for the most part but when Geralt watches the German Grand Prix from behind the glass he remembers to focus on his breathing like the therapist taught him and it doesn’t _not_ help, and by the time they travel to Hungary, he can once again meditate through the daytime panic, and only succumb to the trauma at night. It helps that Jaskier is there when he wakes; speaking to him in a soothing voice just like the one he conjured when he was trapped in the wreckage at Silverstone. But it’s real this time, he can _touch_ Jaskier this time, and it anchors him to the present like nothing else does. 

Jaskier books a room when they get to Hungary but he rarely makes use of it. He puts his suitcase right next to Geralt’s in his large suite (with, yes, another Gursky) and he is there to greet him when Geralt comes home from physio every evening, aching and exhausted.

The call comes one night when they’re slouched on the sofa, sharing takeaway, and watching a documentary about the Pacific War. He hangs up the phone and tosses it in the far corner of the room, certain that he won’t be needing it for the rest of the night. “Medical have cleared me for Qualifying next week.”

Jaskier starts to smile, and then it turns into a frown, and then he’s just poking at his burger with his tongue pressed against his lips seemingly caught between the two expressions. “Is this, uh, good news?” 

Geralt huffs and presses his head back against the back of the sofa. “I miss Roach. I miss the simplicity of racing. I want to return.”

“And you feel like you are ready?” Jaskier asks cautiously. 

Geralt sucks air through his teeth because that’s the question, isn’t it. “I have two weeks to make sure that I am.”

Jaskier nods and then a smile begins to lift his lips. “I can tell that you miss Roach, by the way. You say her name in your sleep.”

Geralt glares and snatches the container of fries right out of his hands. “I do not.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” Jaskier laughs. “If you’re not moaning my name, then you’re moaning hers. I would be jealous if I didn’t personally understand the ineffable connection between a man and his weirdly-named driving machine.”

Geralt glances across at his companion, assessing the opportunity that has been so rapidly shut down in the past. Maybe now they are what they are, Jaskier will answer him for once. “Why _did_ you stop driving?”

Jaskier chortles and then tries to shoot a chip into his mouth. It doesn’t work. He picks it up from the floor and answers while he’s still chewing because he’s an absolute animal. “I was shit, if you remember,” he says, finally swallowing. “Couldn’t even drive a kart without coming in last.”

“I don’t remember that being the case.”

“Oh, darling, it _was_. I may have loved it, but I was mediocre at best, and it’s an expensive fucking hobby. Once my parents bowed out, my sponsors followed shortly and, well, that was that. Luckily I discovered that I enjoyed bugging drivers – and I mean that in every sense of the word – more than driving so don’t feel bad on my account. Best decision I’ve ever made was leaving the car for a mic.”

“Your parents stopped supporting you.”

Jaskier huffs and averts his eyes, and Geralt wagers that he’s finally stumbled across the reason why Jaskier has avoided this question all these years. “Yes, well, we don’t all have a Vesemir backing our careers. You got lucky. I did not. Let’s leave it there.”

But Geralt, unfortunately, has never learned how to drop something once he’s gained interest. “Did they… find out?”

Jaskier drops his burger with a wet thud and looks up at Geralt with exasperation. “Yes, is that what you want to hear? They found out I was bent, and knew exactly what happens to drivers like me, and figured I couldn’t keep it in my pants long enough to sustain a career – which, given my track record, was probably an adequate fear – so they put an end to it before it could begin. Congratulations, Geralt, you’ve unlocked my tragic backstory.” He shakes his head and keeps speaking venomously, “Like every queer kid doesn’t have a ‘my parents abandoned me’ story. I should count myself lucky that mine only did so financially. I lost a career that I probably would have lost anyway. It’s fine.”

Geralt frowns. He’s not very good at reading people but Jaskier’s palpable hurt doesn’t seem to align with his curt dismissal. “Just because people suffer worse than you doesn’t mean that you haven’t suffered,” he says, and only afterwards realises that he is repeating something verbatim from his therapist. “You’re allowed to be upset. You had your choice taken away from you.”

Jaskier sighs and sags back against the sofa, picking at the container of fries that lie between them, all listless and sad. “I’ve never thought of it like that before.” He frowns and looks deep in concentration, as if he’s literally rearranging something in his mind. “Just figured it was teenage angst – fighting back against the parents and all that. But that… that would explain why I’ve hung onto it all these years. I get tetchy every time someone asks me about it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and passes him his abandoned food. “Being queer doesn’t take away from your worth.”

“Bloody hell, Geralt,” Jaskier says, scrutinising him with mouth agape. “That therapist is working _miracles_.”

VIII

On Monday, Geralt heads to the Mogyoród track for practise along with the rest of his team. He needs to know the circuit inside and out by Qualifying that weekend. The manager gives him the first slot, first thing in the morning, when dawn is only just rising, and there are only a handful of other staff on site. His therapist has come too, disguised with a “specialist” badge that most people will assume is technical, and although she keeps wrinkling her nose at the smell and noise of the garage, she is there when he first puts on the helmet and can’t _breathe_ and she is there when he comes back from the first lap feeling positively _giddy_. 

He wanted Jaskier to be here too, but there’s only so much they can get away with. Journalists are rarely around for team practise. Geralt’s not sure if he would have the strength to act professionally around him in any case when he emerges from the cockpit feeling so fucking high on adrenaline. He loves the stink of the burning tires and engine fumes, and the noise of the engine roaring underneath him, and the exhilarating rush that comes from controlling such a complex and highly engineered machine. He loves the speed and the drive and the overwhelming simplicity of the race. If Jaskier was here right now, Geralt wouldn’t give a shit about their audience, he’d just take him in his arms and kiss him with all the passion that he feels surging through him; kiss him until they both remember why they put themselves through this, because they _love_ it – they both love the sport more than anything else in the world. It’s worth the stress, it’s worth the danger, it’s worth it because of _this_. 

Geralt tries to explain this to Jaskier when he gets back to their suite, but he’s clumsy with words, and once feelings are gone, Geralt finds them hard to reclaim, but he kisses him, and kisses him, and hopes that he understands. 

IX.

Geralt comes first in Qualifying, which means that every journalist does the ‘Pole on Pole Position’ gambit, except for Jaskier because Jaskier has much better taste (or the pun doesn’t work in their language; he’s never asked because he’s afraid of the likely and disappointing answer). 

Before he knows it, Jaskier is interviewing him live on camera and Geralt has to make a concerted effort to keep his hands at his side and his manner detached and professional. It’s difficult because he’s spent the last two months thinking of Jaskier as ‘boyfriend’ and not ‘colleague’ and he wagers that Jaskier finds it difficult as well because he’s not as flirtatious as usual, not as jokey or light-hearted, instead he asks technical questions that seem almost dry, as if he’s purposefully trying to keep Jaskier The Reporter as a separate entity from Jaskier The Boyfriend. 

But then, when the camera has moved away and Jaskier is leaving, he reaches out and squeezes his bicep, just once, firmly enough that Geralt feels the heat of his touch through the whole race. 

-

Geralt wins. He’s so overwhelmed with emotion that he nearly cries with relief when he hops out of the car and is immediately swarmed by his celebrating team.

He laughs and tackles them back, overjoyed, but when the crowds disperse, he hears a familiar voice on the breeze and is startled with a sudden _want_.

 _Jaskier_.

He’s here somewhere. The desire to go to him and kiss him and celebrate with him overtakes his senses, becoming his every thought and desire, as he searches through the crowds for him.

He spies him, at last – dressed in that ridiculous tortoise shell shirt and those purple skinny jeans like a fucking child put together his outfit, flushed in the September sun and looking radiant and perfect, and – in front of the camera.

There’s a pang in his chest; a tension so intense that it feels like he’s in the midst of a panic attack. He _wants_. But he can’t _have_. 

Geralt clenches his fist as he’s overtaken with a wave of resentment, one that has been steadily building all these months. _Why should we have to hide away? Why the fuck should it matter what anyone thinks? It’s none of their fucking business. We deserve happiness. I love him, I can’t –_

He loves him. 

Jaskier locks eyes with him across the crowded track, like he heard, like he _knows_. There’s a small smile on his face; sad and resigned. 

Geralt feels his heart crumble into pieces at the sight, and soon Jaskier is swallowed by the crowd, and a man comes bundling past him, hollering a queer slur as if there’s no one to hear him. 

He closes his eyes, and remembers: _This is why we do this_. _For the love of the sport. For the love of…_

But the reasoning doesn’t seem quite as compelling as it used to. 

X. 

It’s been two years. They haven’t been careful enough. There are rumours about them – substantial rumours – and even a photograph that the publicist has spent the best part of three days trying to track down. Eventually, she sits them down in Geralt’s hotel suite and says, “sometimes it’s better to tell the story ourselves than wait for the tabloids to write their own,” and she meets very little resistance.

Geralt feels _relieved_. They’ve both been tired of the charade for a very long time. It’s worn on them, like secrets do over time, burrowing deep until the weight of it crushes the joy that used to reside there. Coming out is daunting, but freeing. He looks to the flowing black lines of the Gursky print on the wall and feels the serenity that Jaskier always claimed was there; the way that it seems to be _going_ somewhere despite all its twists and turns, like that old Polish proverb – _do not push the river, it will flow by itself_. Perhaps they have always meant to end up here. 

“To be frank,” the publicist says, “I don’t know if your team will support you when you come out. You know management have been unhappy about this. They’ll likely keep you on until the end of the season and then ask me to put a spin on their dismissal to make it seem less homophobic. However,” she says, passing him some papers, “Unbeknowst to them I approached another team, eighteen months ago, and asked, ‘hypothetically would you accept a queer driver’ and, well, Red Bull are always trying to appear more liberal than they are so –”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Their cars are shit compared to Roach. No way is Geralt going to –”

“Fine,” he says, cutting Jaskier short. He just wants to race. It doesn’t matter who with. Even if the team are arseholes at least this won’t be the last time that he drives. 

Jaskier looks across at him with dismay, but Geralt smiles and squeezes his hand. _We’ll be okay_ , he wants to say.

“As for you –”

Jaskier honestly looks startled when the publicist holds out some papers to him. “I… me? I don’t… pay you?”

“No, but Geralt does, and he asked very nicely so…”

Jaskier looks down at his papers with palpable confusion. “This isn’t a Polish network.”

“No. And if you come out with this news, it’s unlikely it’ll ever be a Polish network again, but it’s a new digital platform. International. You’d be speaking English. The pay is… not great, and I’m sure there’s other opportunities for you out there but…”

Jaskier, inexplicably, bursts into tears.

Geralt has only ever seen Jaskier cry two times – one, after Geralt’s accident, and two, at the finale of some kind of soap opera. The sight is deeply unsettling.

“Uh,” he asks the publicist. “Can you give us a moment?”

Jaskier starts swearing as soon as she’s out the door, rubbing at his ruddy cheeks and throwing the papers onto the table in a fit. He _fidgets_ even as Geralt tries to take him in his arms. 

“ _Fuck_ , sorry, this is just – the reality of it – it’s so fucking _unfair_. You’re a four-time world champion, Geralt, and your team are going to throw you away like garbage.”

“They might not –”

“They might not _want_ to, but you know the higher ups are conservative wankers, Geralt. It’s fucking inevitable. Our careers are basically over and for no fucking reason except for their own _bigotry_.” 

Geralt hums in agreement. It’s bullshit, but he won’t let Jaskier loiter on what they can lose, when they are about to _gain_ so much. “Maybe you can start reporting Pride festivals. You already have the clothes for it.”

Jaskier lets out a laugh, marred with tears. “Oh, fuck off, I’m trying to be angry –”

“I can drive one of those parade floats –”

“The have a max speed of, like, _ten_ miles per hour, Geralt –”

“A nice change of pace, then.”

Jaskier laughs, and there’s less tears with it this time, as he wipes his yellow shirt sleeve over his face. “I’ve never been to Pride.”

“Me neither,” Geralt admits. “It’s something we can do now.”

Jaskier’s entire face seems to rearrange itself. “Oh. Yes, I suppose it is. I can…” he laughs, and it sounds _relieved_ , like a weight’s been lifted off his chest, just like how Geralt felt when he realised they were doing this. “I can wear those rainbow sunglasses and bracelets and – oh! Wear a pride flag like a cape. All the kids are doing that now. I’d look good in a cape.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, wondering just how much more eccentric Jaskier’s clothing can get.

“And we can go to dinner, and the movies, and… awards. And…”

“I can kiss you after the race,” Geralt murmurs, adding his own desires to the painting of their future. “Hold your hand. Sit next to you on the plane.”

Jaskier sighs and looks up at him with wide, still shining eyes, “And I can marry you.”

Geralt stops breathing. His entire mind short-circuits. He hadn’t even _considered_ that a possibility. 

He’s kissing Jaskier before he can even think of a response, overwhelmed with the idea of declaring their love to the world just as he’s always wanted to do. It seemed impossible. It always seemed so far away. But, one statement from their publicist and it’s _done_ – they can have all that they’ve denied themselves. And there will be consequences, of course there will be, but whatever they do now, will make it easier for the next person to follow in their footsteps. The only way to make progress is with change. 

When the publicist asks for their story, Geralt smiles wryly, and says, “It started with a shitty beer in a shitty bar at a shitty circuit...”

And when they step out into the media circus, Jaskier is there holding his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, folks! [please say hello on tumblr if you haven't already](https://vands38.tumblr.com/) <3


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